The True Love Wedding Dress

by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson

  “Because you didn’t.” He let his head drop back against the pillow, linking his hands behind his neck. “Actually I’m a little surprised you haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “Figured what out?”

  “Lucy. I’m a captain in the cavalry. My men’s lives depended on my ability to judge the weather and when it would arrive. I knew there was a rainstorm coming.”

  “So?” She sounded a little less certain, and the hands resting with such thought-destroying languor on his chest had begun plucking nervously at the hair there, which at least had the effect of keeping him in the moment.

  “And Pall Mall. Why do you think that of all the fashionable streets in London your brother chose that particular one to send me to?”

  “That’s easy enough. Because it is near his townhouse and he would be able to savor the tales of your bridal walk from his neighbors for years to come.”

  “True.” He smiled. She relaxed a little. “It makes perfect sense. But it would also be the most logical place to go if a man were to assume that he would soon be soaking wet yet knew that he could depend on the kindheartedness of a certain young lady not to return him to the scene of his humiliation soaking wet when dry clothing was so near at hand.”

  “But I suggested it.”

  “Bless you. But if you hadn’t, I would have. Come, Lucy, even you kept making comments about how surprised you were your brother was willing to go so far for revenge. Well, he didn’t. Doesn’t that make you feel better about him?”

  He expected her to laugh then, because Lucy was not a poor sport. At least he expected her to smile and lower her lips to his and reward him for his clever seduction. He did not expect her to scramble off of him, dragging the top sheet with her and holding it in front of her.

  He sat up, frowning as he sought to read her expression. But the light from the window behind her that curved over her shoulders and set a nimbus of fire around her auburn hair also steeped her face in darkness.

  “Lucy.”

  She moved quickly, dipping down and gathering some of her clothing before hastening away, her bare feet soundless as she fled behind the screen. He heard the splash of water in the basin. He looked down and saw a dark stain on his body. He’d forgotten there would be blood.

  He stood up. “Lucy.” He took a step forward.

  “Stay there, you—you—” Her voice was low and angry.

  What the devil had he said? Was she angry that he’d taken responsibility for their lovemaking? Would she not let him play the gentleman in any instance? What the hell was wrong with the girl?

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, confused and irritated as he jammed first one leg, then the other into his trousers.

  “You manipulated me.” Her voice shook with indignation.

  His hands tightened into fists. He forced himself to count to three very . . . very . . . slowly and then, in the most cool and reasonable tones, said, “How is it that what you do is seduction, but the same from me is manipulation? I am afraid even you cannot have it both ways, Lucy.”

  “I never manipulated you,” she breathed in horrified tones from behind the screen.

  He laughed. “All those blatant attempts to get me to bed before I left for the Crimea—I suppose you would call those just good old friendly persuasion?”

  “You are now being ungentlemanly.”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted. It is certainly what you wanted two years ago.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! Let’s have this out once and for all, shall we? Why do you think I left you at the marquis’s house two years ago?”

  He heard the sound of a wet cloth splatting against something solid—like a wall. The screen snapped back, and she stood in front of him dressed in pantaloons and chemise, her hands on her hips, the bodice of her gown half undone to the waist.

  “You were angry at me for flirting. You were jealous.”

  “I was going mad!”

  She started to turn away from him with a sound of scorn, but he clasped her arm and wheeled her back around to face him.

  “Do you really think a flirtation could make me so crazy? I didn’t care who you danced with or how many times. I knew you were mine,” which was mostly true, “but I could not tolerate the frustration you were daily heaping on my head. I thought to give you a taste of what you put me through earlier. Shall I repeat the lesson?”

  She flushed, and he dragged her into his arms, kissing her roughly before pushing her away, holding her at arm’s length.

  “I loved you, Lucy. More than . . . God.” He released her, raking his hair back with his hand. “I tried to tell you why, to explain that I could not marry you when the possibility of returning to you crippled or disabled was so real. But you would not listen.

  “You wanted me to bed you, wed you, and abandon you with nothing more than a faint hope that I would return to you in one piece. You didn’t want me to act ungentlemanly, you wanted me to act the complete blackguard. Well, I am sorry that I had to disappoint you.”

  She bit down hard on her lips, and he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. He reached out and she backed away. No. Not again.

  “No. Don’t touch me. I shouldn’t want you to compromise your values for me!”

  “You are deliberately misunderstanding.”

  “I understand perfectly well.” Her voice shook, squeezing the very soul from him. “You meant what you said at Great-aunt Sophie’s birthday party. I am too strong-willed, too leading for you.”

  “Bloody hell, Lucy. You are strong-willed. You’re a veritable termagant. You’re wrongheaded and impetuous—”

  The sound of the door banging open cut off his words. A second later a loud but indistinct baritone rumbled up from the main floor, singing a very ribald and very popular tavern song. Lucy’s gaze met his.

  “It’s Hugh!”

  “Grand,” Alex muttered. “Have him up and we’ll make a party of it. How the hell did he get here, anyway?””

  “Marcus Penworthy probably brought him home. Oh, Lord! He’ll kill you if—”

  “No one is going to kill me, Lucy.”

  “He mustn’t find us!” she said, ignoring his reassurances. Her eyes were wide and her face pale. “Please, Alex.”

  “All right.” He capitulated in frustration. “We’ll just stay in here and remain quiet until he passes out, which, judging from the butchery he’s doing on those lyrics, shouldn’t be long. But come tomorrow we go and—”

  “The dress!”

  “What dress?”

  “The bride’s dress you wore,” she whispered urgently. “I have to get it before he goes to his room. And he is bound to go to his room!”

  Before he could react, she darted past him and was through the door.

  With a heavy sigh, he followed her to Hugh’s room, entering to find her spinning around, her hair flying like a mane about her slight shoulders. “It’s not here.”

  “What do you mean? It has to be.”

  “Well, it’s not. Look!” She pointed at the pool of muddy water standing in the center of room. She was right. The dress was gone. He strode over to the bed and lifted the coverlet, bending over to peer beneath. It wasn’t there, either. He straightened, puzzled and frowning.

  “The closet room,” he suggested.

  With a look of relief, she flew to the door, Alex trailing behind.

  “Her name was RITA—” Hugh bellowed from just beyond the door.

  “And nothing was SWEETER—”

  “In here!” Lucy yelped, and grabbing his wrist, yanked him into the closet with surprising strength for such a fey-looking lass.

  Inside the small closet it was pitch-black. A few pieces of clothing hanging from hooks cushioned the walls, muffling the sound of their breathing.

  “Than what she had under her SKIRTS!”

  Lucy giggled. And Alex fell in love all over again. She still held his wrist, and he could feel her grip tighten at the sound of Hugh’s ap
proaching footsteps. Luckily they shuffled past the closet door without stopping. But they could still hear his slurred voice.

  “Damn.” Hugh said. “Forgot how much I liked that bastard. First of his class. Capital officer. Awful card player.” He chuckled and then trailed off. “Did Luce a bad turn. Said so ’imself.”

  They heard the decanter strike the lip of the glass. A long pause. “Still . . . fellow can only hold a grudge so long. And Penworthy said she left with the bastard. Poor old dear, poor old Luce, still in love with the great oaf,” he moaned in a ripe, maudlin tone.

  In the dark, closed quarters, Alex felt the heat of embarrassment rise from Lucy’s skin like perfume. Hugh sighed deeply.

  “Nope,” he muttered thickly. “Nothing for it but he must marry her. Or I’ll have to kill him. Should hate to kill him—where’d all the whiskey go? Damn! Where was I? Oh, yes . . . killing Thorpe. Only choice I’ll have if he don’t come up to scratch.”

  With a choked sputter, Lucy reached for the door handle, but Alex caught her arm and spun her around, pulling her shoulders into his chest and covering her mouth with his hand. “Quiet!” he whispered, unable to keep from smiling. Lucy was not smiling. The curve of her lips against his palm was turned decidedly downward.

  “Maybe there’s another way,” Hugh was musing doubtfully. “Fellow would need another drink to rouse the old brain cells, though. ’Nother drink. That’s the thing!””

  And with that his footsteps stumbled out of the room.

  Lucy’s hand slipped from Alex’s wrist. “I think we can go.”

  “Better wait a bit. You never know with Hugh. He might be sitting on the top step even as we speak, gearing up for his next concert.”

  She laughed again before she recalled her embarrassment, and then he could almost picture the way her lips snapped together. He longed to tease them apart, to make them soft with amusement . . . or pleasure.

  “A few minutes longer, then,” she agreed and turned. The movement sent her hand swinging gently against his fly. She froze. He could feel the realization that he was still mostly naked, and mostly aroused, wash through her.

  She made a nervous little sound, and he heard the clothing shift as she pressed herself tight against the wall. “How much longer, do you think?”

  A man can stand only so much.

  “Long enough for me to do this.” His found her without effort, pulling her into his embrace as he bent down and his mouth opened over hers. She did not kiss him back.

  “Kiss me, Lucy,” he whispered against her lips. “And I might let you go before Hugh comes back.”

  “That’s extortion.”

  “Yes. You’re very good at it. So am I.” He trailed a series of nibbles across her mouth and over her smooth cheek, pausing beneath her earlobe to nip the tender flesh there. “Kiss me.”

  In the darkness, in the blackness, her head slowly turned and her mouth, as chaste and cool as a nun’s, brushed over his. She disliked not being in control.

  “Use your tongue and I might let you go even faster,” he suggested.

  “No.” She didn’t sound as certain as the word implied.

  His hands marked a lingering trail down her arms to her hips. He clasped the delicate bones in his palms and held her there, just a few inches away from his body. He dipped his head and traced a line from her chin to the valley between her breasts with the tip of his tongue. Her breath caught on a little hitch of excitement.

  “I was in love with you.” He bumped his hips, his erection, lightly against her. She swallowed but did not move. “And in lust. It was all I could do not to throw you over my shoulder and carry you off to some rotting pile in Scotland. But I wasn’t going to roll over and do what you wanted and be less than the man I wanted to be. I had obligations. Not the least of which were to you, Lucy.”

  He pulled her hips tight to his.

  “You made me crazy that day. Do you remember? You had my shirt all but off and you were lying in the field behind the stables, flowers in your hair and your skirts about your thighs. I had to leave.

  “And then, that night, you wouldn’t even talk to me. You just flirted with Fitzhugh.” He couldn’t help it. The heat was rising between them like an aphrodisiac. He found her mouth again, this time open and willing. He plundered it softly with his tongue, finally breaking off and holding her back.

  “I was furious. You’d pushed me past every bit of endurance I had left. I never intended to hurt you. It all . . . happened, and then I didn’t know how to undo it and you didn’t seem to care.”

  “I cared.” And in those few words he heard all the sorrow and tears and pain she had never shown the world. Too proud. Both of them.

  “But tonight, when I saw you, it suddenly didn’t matter what the last two years had been, who you danced with or how many times. I didn’t even care if you’d fallen in love with another and even now were waiting for him to declare himself. I love you. I have always loved you and I always will.

  “You’re mine, Lucy. You always have been.” With infinite gentleness, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. She slid her arms around his back and rested her head against his chest. “Nothing can keep me from you except pride. And that, I vow, is not going to stand in the way. Not this time.”

  “You . . .”

  “What?”

  He felt her silky head shake against his chest. He cupped the back of it and brushed a kiss against her temple. “I thought you didn’t want to marry me,” she said.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because when I asked you to marry me, all you said in reply was that you had seduced me.”

  “Wait.” He held her away from him, trying and failing to see her in the dark closet. “You asked me to marry you?”

  He felt her nod.

  “When?”

  “After we . . . made love. I said that now that I had seduced you, you would have to marry me.”

  He laughed, and she started to squirm, trying to break out of his arms, angry again. Such passionate creatures are faeries. “My darling, my beloved, my . . . sweet fool. Men are simple, basic organisms, especially after they have just engaged in the most physically intense experience imaginable. Their senses come back slowly, like sand dribbling in an hourglass. First we are able to breathe again, then see, then, slowly, hear, and even slower still, understand what we are hearing, and finally, think.”

  And just to make sure she understood, he added in a very clear, firm voice. “I didn’t hear you. If I had, we should be at the church right now making preparations.”

  For a long moment she was quiet. Then, “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “It’s amazing men ever engage in . . . well, you know.”

  The darling prude. Who’d have thought it?

  “I mean, it makes you so vulnerable.”

  “Oh, my dear, you have no idea.”

  “Ha.” She gave a little sigh. A very happy little sigh. “And you do want to marry me?”

  “No, no. This will not do. I refuse to have you throw this in my face every time we have a fight, and, God help us, Lucy, we will have many fights.”

  “But we will also have many reconciliations,” she said cheerfully.

  “Be that as it may . . .” He dropped to his knees in the black closet, grabbing her hands and clasping them tightly. “Marry me, Lucy St. James. Please marry me.”

  Her hand reached down and brushed against his face. “Yes, Alex.”

  He turned her hand over and pressed a warm kiss in the center of her palm.

  “But I get to wear the bride’s dress.”

  He rose, catching her up in his arms. “Hussy. Is that why you pitched that bloody dress somewhere? So you won’t be shone down?”

  She started laughing. “I swear, I have no idea where it is!”

  “Thank God,” he muttered, his head bending for a kiss as he reached for the door. It swung open, letting the light in.

  Finally.

  Praised
for her sophisticated romances, Connie Brockway has twice received coveted Publishers Weekly starred reviews as well as unqualified recommendations from Booklist, which also named her novel My Seduction one of 2004’s top ten romances. A seven-time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA Award, Brockway has twice been its recipient, first in 2000 for My Dearest Enemy and again in 2002 for The Bridal Season.

  Today Brockway lives in Minnesota with her husband, David, a family physician, and their dogs. A regular speaker at national and local writing conventions and workshops, Brockway also enjoys cooking, gardening, tennis, and working for her favorite charitable organization, the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center of Minnesota.

  Something Special

  Casey Claybourne

  Prologue

  Seattle, 1864

  “Rain.” A small leather boot kicked listlessly at a

  A small leather boot kicked listlessly at a dust ball, as the boot’s owner, eleven-year-old Eliza Cooper, peered out the attic window to the sodden fields below.

  Having passed nearly half of her life in the Washington Territory, Eliza was certainly no stranger to inclement weather. Today, however, the dark skies proved especially annoying, for not only had she been unable to take her journal up to University Hill as she’d planned, but her search through the attic’s cob-webbed corners had yielded little to amuse her this long, wet afternoon.

  Expectantly, she pushed her freckled nose up against the sooty square of glass and searched the distant horizon. Habit compelled her to look north, even though she knew that her father would not be home for many weeks yet. Joshua Cooper’s logging business forced him to travel for extended periods of time, which meant that Eliza was left to her own devices and to the questionable care of their housekeeper, Seamus Macgorrie, a taciturn, one-legged Irishman who didn’t much relish his role of reluctant nanny.

  “If only . . .” Eliza whispered, the plea as nebulous and unformed as her puff of breath that frosted the tiny pane.

  With a sigh, she gave one more lackluster kick to the dust ball, when suddenly a stray beam of sunshine fought its way through the dense clouds to shoot past her into the garret. The unexpected ray, bright and golden, shone like a lance as it sliced across the room to fall squarely upon the brass latch of a large, weathered trunk. Eliza’s fair brows beetled together. Odd. How had she failed to notice that unfamiliar chest during her foraging minutes ago?